


To hold the fruit in our hands

by mentosmorii



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Found Family, Future Fic, Gen, Hanukkah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22063579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentosmorii/pseuds/mentosmorii
Summary: “Holly’s shuttle will be here late,” he explained. “This is just to tell her that she’s free to make herself a plate if we’re all asleep when she arrives.”“Write ‘happy 10-year anniversary’ on it,” Juliet remarked, peering over Butler’s shoulder.“That’s ghoulish, Juliet,” Artemis groaned, and Butler sighed.“I meant of our friendship,” Juliet stressed. “We all have beenfriendsfor 10 years. But yes, technically it is the 10-year anniversary of when we kidnapped her."--This year, Hanukkah and Christmas fall around the same time. A look into the families you choose, and the meals you have with them.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82
Collections: Artemis Fowl Yuletide





	To hold the fruit in our hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctrpepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctrpepper/gifts).



December had snuck its way up on Ireland’s shores, all too quickly stealing the vibrantly colored autumn leaves from the tree branches and banishing to a distant memory the milder winds. During what few daylight hours remained, the sun was tucked resolutely behind the clouds and the lashing rain that would ensue occupied a liminal state between water and snow. However, as winter forced itself upon the island, Domovoi Butler found that many people would push back. In a way, December was the brightest month of the year, as he could hardly think of any other time when his drive to the airport was lit up by endless strings of fairy lights strewn about houses and bushes.

It was late — or perhaps early would be a more apt description of the time. The clock on his dashboard was nearing 3:00, and his grip on the wheel tightened as he thought about navigating Dublin Airport.

“You’re very tense.”

Butler shot a glance at the passenger seat. Beside him, Artemis Fowl sat tapping away at his phone.

“You know I do not like how open airports are.”

Artemis nodded, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his face strangely. “Which is why Juliet picked such an inconvenient hour for her flight to arrive, I assume.”

Butler tsked. “It’s the holidays — regardless of how early it is, the entire building will be crawling with people.”

“In that case,” Artemis said, finally turning off his phone. “I promise not to wander off.”

Butler tore his gaze away from the road, shooting Artemis a look. “I miss when your sense of humor was exclusively pun-related.”

Artemis laughed at that, and Butler smiled, loosening his grip somewhat on the wheel.

* * *

After Juliet had been picked up at the airport, there had been little energy for chitchat. Once the Bentley pulled back into the manor’s driveway, the three retired straight to bed almost immediately.

Butler had been the first to wake. This was to be expected — for years, his routine was to wake up at dawn to patrol the grounds, regardless of how much sleep he had the night before. Juliet, whose training with Madame Ko had drilled similar habits into her, was the next to rise, though far less early. By the time she’d come downstairs, the smell of cooking food had already begun to waft up from the kitchen, and her mouth watered to think of what would be for dinner.

Whenever Juliet came back from America for the holidays, she was stricken by how much she missed watching her brother cook.

She padded into the kitchen, nodding good morning at her brother. He had been in the process of taking a pot off the stove, and he smiled at her as she entered. Pausing briefly to grab the granola mix from the cupboard, Juliet settled down at the table, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.

The space-heater in the kitchen rattled stubbornly, and she ate her breakfast slowly, watching her brother bustle about as he cooked. As he dipped a single finger in the cooling rosewater syrup at the bottom of his pot, bringing the cooling concoction to his mouth, Juliet felt warm waves of pride emanating off of him.

It was far from the Hanukkah dinners she’d had with some of the other students when she’d still been in Madame Ko’s academy. Most of the trainees were also Ashkenazi, and the music, food, and décor had reflected that — although there were a few years where the deep-fried fritter bimuelos had featured heavily in the potluck-style celebrations.

However, after she’d officially abandoned the Blue Diamond path, Juliet had started being around for December again. The first year she’d been home for the holidays, her brother had clumsily thrown together a meal for them each of the eight nights, and ever since, they’d made sure to carve out time to properly celebrate with one another. If there was one thing to be said about her brother’s culinary repertoire, it was that it was diverse —the meals Butler would produce seemed like a mishmash of global cuisine.

His cooking reminded her of the strange past that he carried with him from before she or Artemis had been born. Before last year, she’d not even heard of _atayef_ , or Syrian cheese-filled pancakes.

Butler poured the syrup into a Tupperware container and set it aside for later. While he rummaged through the fridge to find a suitable place for it, he called to her over his shoulder.

“You’ve really never tried the dish?”

“Nah, never.”

“I had it so many years ago,” he remarked, wiping a hand on his trousers. “It was right after I graduated from Madame Ko’s — I did a stint in Syria. I still keep in touch with the family I stayed with, you know.”

“Softie.”

He chuckled. “The Tawils are good folks. You’d like them. I picked up more than just this recipe while I stayed there. Between missions, I would often help Aischa with cooking — this is her atayef recipe.”

“You’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

“I suppose. But it was more the story of the dish that made me like it,” he insisted, looking as close to shy as it was possible for a man as domineering as Butler to look. “The cheese is supposed to be a reference to the meal Judith gave Holofernes.”

“Interesting” Juliet chimed in, resting her chin on her outstretched palm.

Butler nodded encouragingly. “At the time, I thought the idea of someone finding what way they could to fight back, such as with the food and wine, was… nice. The definition provided to me of what strength was back then was so rigid, and I … I appreciated the story. Now, I suppose I like it because the bits about resilience remind me of you.”

Juliet made a face, good mood dampening somewhat. “I quit the academy, Dom. Resilience is pretty far from—”

“Name a single Butler that walked away from the academy,” Butler interjected, voice deliberately mild. “You think you’re the first person in our family to want a different path in life?”

When she said nothing, he continued. “I don’t ever want you to feel guilty about going your own way, Juliet.”

With that, he moved to turn off the stove, the crackling of the fire spluttering sounding faintly.

After a moment, Juliet rose from her chair, moving to stand beside him. Butler gently handed her a cutting knife, and they worked shoulder to shoulder, the smell of spices filling the kitchen as the day stretched on.

* * *

Juliet set aside the mixing bowl she’d been feeding sliced potatoes and onions into, moving towards the sink to wash her hands. Whistling as she worked, she moved to grab a dish towel to dry her hands when her ears pricked. Quirking her head curiously, she turned, finally noticing Mrs. Fowl in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Er, hi,” Juliet said, and Angeline started.

Angeline composed herself, walking in. “Juliet! I was just coming to say hello. I know you got back last night, but I didn’t manage to catch you before I retired to bed.”

“It’s fine,” Juliet assured her, still a bit confused. She hardly ever interacted with the Fowl matriarch — she didn't see why Angeline should feel guilty about not being there to welcome her back to the manor at 4 a.m. on a Sunday.

Angeline moved to sit at the kitchen table, waving her off. “Nonsense. I wanted to welcome you back with the others.”

“It really wasn’t that big of an occasion,” Juliet insisted. “My brother just picked me up from the airport, and then we went to bed so we wouldn’t miss out on the rest of Sunday by sleeping through it. You shouldn’t feel bad or anything.”

“I don’t know,” Angeline said, faltering. “I’ve just… with you coming back for the holidays, I’ve been thinking about you.”

“I see,” Juliet remarked lightly, who very much did _not_ see what in the hell that comment meant.

Angeline opened her mouth, floundering for words. After a moment, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks tinted slightly pink.

“Do you,” she began, struggling to find the right words. “When Timmy was… gone, you were — I mean,” she laughed nervously. “I remember that you helped out with me while I was ill.”

Juliet cocked her head slightly. “Yes.”

Angeline’s smile shrunk by a few molars. “I’ve… talked with Arty about this. Trust me, Juliet, when I say that what I do remember from that time brings me pain."

Angeline paused. “Maybe… maybe not pain, per se. Shame, though. Grief, certainly.”

“What did Artemis say?” Juliet asked, keeping her tone light. “When you two talked.”

At that, Angeline exhaled breathily, the sound resembling a cross between laughing and choking. “Oh, what didn’t we talk about?”

Juliet pursed her lips in response to that.

Angeline shook her head. “He and I… we decided that that business should be left in the past. We’ve both said what we needed to say, and nothing else remains to talk about that isn’t just prolonging all the pain and resentment that that time fostered. Arty knows that I’m — he understands that there aren’t enough words in the world to describe how sorry I am. I don’t think an apology alone is enough the change how it — how _I_ hurt him, but he knows. I won’t be like my parents and assume that time is enough to make amends for one's failures.”

Angeline’s gaze had drifted decidedly away from Juliet as she’d spoke, but now her eyes snapped back to look squarely into Juliet’s. “But you were also a child, Juliet. And you also deserve an apology for how I — for what happened,” she finished lamely, the tips of her ears scarlet.

Juliet ran her tongue over her teeth, mulling Angeline’s words over. “When I was your nurse,” she began, and Angeline flinched at words being put to exactly what had transpired after the Fowl Star had sunk. “You fired me so many times I lost count.”

Angeline looked strained. “I’m sorry.”

“You’d get mad at some stupid thing I’d messed up, then you’d yell at me, then you’d dismiss me. But you’d forget that you’d fired me by the next morning, and then I’d have to tend to you the next day. You wouldn’t listen to my brother when he would try to help you, and I didn’t — I didn’t want him to think that I was weak, so I never talked about how _scary_ it was to walk into that attic each day for almost a year,” Juliet finished, exhaling roughly.

They both fell silent.

After a moment, Angeline nodded. “I don’t have any excuse for you.”

Juliet nodded back. “I know.”

“Is there anything—”

“No,” Juliet sighed, forcing out a smile. “I think this is as close to closure that you and I can come, Angeline.”

Angeline looked conflicted, half torn between relief and a desire to press for more. “Alright.”

For a moment, Juliet wondered how Artemis’ conversation with Angeline had gone. In all likelihood, either he or Mrs. Fowl had been driven either to tears or to storming off. Artemis could never be stoic when it came to Angeline — his love for her was unconditional, and to address the messy and tangled pieces of how he’d been parented would have doubtlessly been like swinging a wrecking ball at any emotional composure he could have had when confronting Angeline. It’s no wonder Angeline and he had come to the conclusion to leave the past behind, Juliet thought, and the sentiment was only a tad rueful.

“Juliet,” Angeline said, breaking the silence. “I’m glad that you’re back at the manor — back home.”

Juliet’s expression softened at that, and Angeline seemed encouraged to continue.

“It seems so long ago,” Angeline remarked, a small chuckle creeping into her voice. “But when I was a girl, my nana would cook all throughout the holidays. I always knew that a day was special because the whole house would smell faintly of sugar and spices. I tried to learn some of the recipes, but I never quite was as good as she was.”

“Sufganiyot…” Angeline began slowly, looking at Juliet for confirmation. Juliet nodded, and Angeline smiled, continuing.

“Sufganiyot are similar to _pyshki_ , I think. And I can make pyshki — Timmy can attest to their quality,” she grinned, and Juliet felt some of the tension from before seeping out of the room.

“If you’d want to bake with me before Hanukkah is over, I could… we could try to make them together,” Juliet offered, and Angeline lit up.

“Oh, Juliet,” she said, scooping both of Juliet’s hands up in her own and clasping them together. “Juliet, I’d love to.”

* * *

During the years when Hanukkah coincided with Christmas, the Butlers ate dinner late on the 24th. The Christmas Eve mass the Fowls attended generally ran until 6:00, and what few family and friends the Fowls had would invariably end up milling around the manor until 8:00 for after services small talk. By the time Artemis was able to peel away from his family, it was usually almost 9:00 — but they were all familiar with taking meals at odd hours, and so it was never truly a problem when Artemis ducked into their living room late into the evening.

Besides, evening mass usually coincided with sunset. While Artemis was off with his family, there was time to light the old brass hanukkiah that had belonged to their mother. As the light of the lit menorah dappled across the window to the lounge, Butler would dig up old family photo albums, working with Juliet through both the pages that contained familiar faces and the pages that displayed men and woman with whom they only shared a common last name. Each year, they seemed to uncover something new about the memory books — last Hanukkah’s digging had unearthed an old photo of the Major back from when the man had been in his early twenties. In the image, their uncle had been photographed outside of a Parisian bar with some of his buddies from the academy, and the taciturn man was barely recognizable with a shit-eating grin on his face and an arm strewn haphazardly around one of his friends.

This year was no different. At 6:00, the Bentley pulled out of the manor’s driveway, and Juliet and Butler retired to their wing in house. The sun hadn’t yet set, and so Butler was still poking around the kitchen, finishing up the final preparations for dinner.

The wrestling troupe’s schedule made it so Juliet, Butler, and Artemis were all under the same roof less frequently than Butler would have liked, and he made sure to squeeze as many family meals out of December as possible.

He always made sure to subtly call them family meals when Artemis was in earshot, Juliet noted, and Artemis always made sure to nod along, taking it in stride. Which, she snorted, was practically a teary-eyed signing of adoption papers for two people as reserved as they were.

Juliet perked up as she saw her brother gingerly walk back into the dining room, a large plate in tow. Butler set the dish on the table, humming slightly. Juliet meandered over, but he waved her off.

“It’s not ready.”

“I was just going to take a peek,” she insisted, holding up a hand. He gave her a dry look, and she laughed, saddling up to the table in front of him. Whatever he’d made smelled incredible — the earthy, rich smell of roasted vegetables had been coming from the kitchen for the better half of the past hour.

Before he could protest, she snagged one of the caramelized carrots. Popping it in her mouth, she raised her eyebrows approvingly.

“Très bon.”

Butler gently maneuvered the dish closer to the center of the table. “It’s not that fancy, Juliet. It’s just a modified bœuf bourguignon.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, ‘not that fancy’. Don’t sell yourself short. You always kill it with meals, Dom.”

“I’m glad you think it tastes good,” he said, ignoring her good-natured prodding. “I wasn’t sure if the tofu and mushrooms would be a suitable protein replacement, but if you like it, then I’m happy with how it turned out.”

“I love it,” she declared, and Butler gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

After a moment, a thoughtful expression crossed his face, and Juliet quirked an eyebrow upwards before popping another one of the carrots in her mouth.

“What’s up?”

“You should tell Artemis that you liked the food, too,” Butler remarked, throwing the dishtowel he’d been using to carry the hot plate over his shoulder. “He helped with the cooking this year.”

Juliet stopped chewing immediately, and Butler gave her a look.

“Don’t tease him.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

Butler tsked, heading back out to collect more dishes from the kitchen. Juliet plucked another vegetable from the plate, chewing as she headed after him to help.

* * *

As usual, the Fowls returned home late. Juliet rose from the couch, moving to sit at the table. In the hall, she heard the sound of Artemis trying to briskly ascend the stairs without sounding as if he were running, and moments later, the door opened. Butler popped his head in from the other room, motioning for them both to find their seats while he grabbed something from the kitchenette.

As they sat down, Juliet nudged Artemis. He looked at her questioningly, and she gestured towards the food on the table.

“Did you actually help with cooking?”

Artemis made a noncommittal sound. “I was more of a creative director, honestly.”

With that, Juliet finally moved to start putting food on the plates around the small table.

“Is my cooking that bad?”

“Artemis,” Juliet said, tone incredulous, pointing at him with a serving spoon. “Do you know how many times Mulch has told me about when you attempted to make him a sandwich? How am I — every time he calls me on the phone, I get that horror story, and you’re expecting me to risk eating temperature-sensitive food you’d prepared?”

Artemis let out a beleaguered sigh, looking at the tofu glumly. “I was fourteen when that happened.”

She snorted. “Yet it was disturbing enough to leave a years-long impression on Diggums.”

“Well, I can’t account for his delicate sensibilities,” Artemis said primly, and Juliet gave him a look.

“The man eats dirt, Arty.”

“I know.”

“He _still_ refuses to try anything you cook.”

“Oh, for the love of — I _know_ , Juliet.”

“Can you see how that would give me some hesitation when trying something you’d help make?”

Artemis leaned back in his seat, looking as though he had the beginning of a migraine coming on. “I can see why, thank you very much.”

* * *

After Juliet’s initial teasing, the table settled into dinner, and the rest of the night went by quickly.

What little food that had not been consumed was moved into Tupperware containers. Butler unhooked the dry erase marker from the board that had been fastened to the refrigerator door, scribbling a quick note.

“Holly’s shuttle will be here late,” he explained. “This is just to tell her that she’s free to make herself a plate if we’re all asleep when she arrives.”

“Write ‘happy 10-year anniversary’ on it,” Juliet remarked, peering over Butler’s shoulder.

“That’s ghoulish, Juliet,” Artemis groaned, and Butler sighed.

“I meant of our _friendship_ ,” Juliet stressed. “We all have been _friends_ for 10 years. But yes, _technically_ it is the 10-year anniversary of when we kidnapped her. Moral of the story: stick around, and you get upgraded to a family meal and a guestroom.”

“You can tell her that joke if you want,” Butler said, placing the pen back in its holder. “I hardly think that Artemis or I could get away with it, though.”

* * *

By the time Holly arrived, it was already the 25th. Juliet was awoken to the sound of rapping on her window, and when she looked up, she saw the elf pointing at the window latch for Juliet to let her in. Still shaking off the effects of slumber, Juliet fumbled with the lock for a moment before the window swung open, and Holly carefully zipped inside.

“’Morning,” Holly grinned, and Juliet rolled her eyes, shutting the window.

“You’re late.”

“I was caught up back at the LEP,” Holly explained, powering down her wings as she came to a rest on the foot of the bed. “It’s not just aboveground that gets busy during the holidays.”

“However,” Holly continued. “As a consolation, I come bearing a small gift. Although you are getting this for somewhat selfish reasons —you can’t exactly work for the LEP if you’re unable to Mesmer or shield.”

“And so,” Holly said, holding out the small bag. “Candy instead of wine. Chocolate gold from your favorite LEPrecon.”

Juliet snorted, taking the bag from her and peering inside. “Cheeky. Thanks.”

“It’s also a bit bizarre to think of you as now being old enough to able to drink, no offense.”

Juliet popped one of the candies in her mouth and then crumpled the thin tinfoil wrapping of the gelt in her palm. “’m in my twenties, Holly — you sound like my brother.”

Holly waved her off. “It’s the difference in time scales, honestly. Butler would be considered barely more than a preteen back in Haven.”

“I’m telling him that.”

“Tell him,” Holly dared, reaching into the bag to grab a chocolate for herself. “He’d get a kick out of it.”

“Thanks,” Juliet said, her expression soft.

Holly smiled back. “I’m going to go say hello to your brother and Artemis, Juliet. Try to go back to bed – I’ll be here when it’s proper morning.”

“Happy holidays, Holly.”

“Happy holidays.”

* * *

O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into 

the round jubilance of peach.

\- _From Blossoms_ by Li-Young Lee

**Author's Note:**

> happy 2020, and thank you to everyone who participated in the exchange! I hope you enjoy this fic — as a disclaimer, i am not jewish, and i hope my depiction of hanukkah turned out alright!
> 
> also, the poem at the end is by Li-Young Lee, probably one of my favorite writers of all time, and I really like how that particular stanza ties the act of sharing food with another as being an act that sustains and revitalizes on not just a physical, but mental and emotional, level.
> 
> as a final note, if you are not jewish and would like to learn more about hanukkah, chabad.org has some good resources + the youtube channel bim bam has a playlist full of videos on food, celebrations, and traditions. Also, just want to put a plug for "The Synagogues of Britain and Ireland: An Architectural and Social History" by Sharman Kadish, as it has some really gorgeous prints and write-ups in it!


End file.
